


i have fears (that i may cease to be)

by raayachez



Series: A Thousand Ways this Could Go [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Excessive use of original characters, Excessive use of poetry as chapter titles, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Ghosts, Horcrux Hunting, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Magical Accidents, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Morally Ambiguous Character, Necromancy, Not Really Character Death, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), POV Alternating, POV Character of Color, POV Multiple, POV Original Character, POV Regulus Black, POV Third Person, Personification of Entities, Possession, Queer Character, Redemption, Regulus Black Lives, Regulus Black is a (loveable) asshole, Regulus Black-centric, Rituals, Unreliable Narrator, Wizarding Culture (Harry Potter), Wizarding Traditions (Harry Potter), Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raayachez/pseuds/raayachez
Summary: He curled into himself, feeling the biting cold, which was strange. He should not feel temperature the same way humans – the alive – did. That was, unless…Or:Death can besotemporary. How tedious.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Regulus Black & Kreacher, Regulus Black & Original Character(s), Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks
Series: A Thousand Ways this Could Go [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935421
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	1. whilst the wave constantly drips from her clothing

**Author's Note:**

> TW: suicide idealization (briefly thought about in the second paragraph)
> 
> i'll make sure to put a warning in the notes/add it to the tags about any possible tw or cw. i'm also going to be clear about it, reg is characterized as suicidal. he has expressed and most likely will continue to express thoughts that both glorify and show suicide in a positive light. this is one of the issues that i will cover in the story, and is also one of the things that he will realize that he was wrong about treating it in such a manner. 
> 
> [PLEASE](https://creativesocialworker.tumblr.com/hotlines) if you or a loved one ever feels suicidal please please please talk to somebody about it; do not let such feelings fester. The link I have attached has a masterlist of hotlines/chat rooms/etc
> 
> it'll be 5 or so chapters before we get to see any interactions between regulus and other canon characters (besides Kreacher, in any case!), and in between his POV and then, i'll basically be writing in the POV of my OCs. if you're not into that, there's no guarantee you'll like this fic, but you'll never know unless you give it a chance... ;)

_The Cave_

_Unknown Date_

His family was akin to old stars: brash, unconquerable and made of contents unexplored. Maybe even more so, in the bloody sea he was lost in. But no, that was not quite accurate, was it? He was merely a boy, one devoid of a heartbeat.

But everything was better now. His death was a comfortable existence; for surely, his mother should have become used to the slight deviation in her daily routine.

A voice interrupted his tedious thoughts.

It would have been so easy to assume that it was from one of his floating memories, the ones that went a little too deep into his head and resulted in him losing his mind, all over again. But he could _not_ identify the owner of it, he did _not_ know who they were.

Paralyzed by the implications, he stilled, before gliding over the mildew that draped over the rocks. He passed the layers of stone and wards to see a strangely familiar woman, and a man trailing after her. How did these people – _muggles,_ he grimaced – get here?

“Where did you take us?”

The woman muttered, “This is where his body is. His own little burial ground.”

“You can not be serious.”

“When am I not?”

“I have a list of reasons,” the man quipped, hand twitching towards his waist, but never following through. “But I did not expect this from you. I- I thought I knew you.”

“And I thought you’d care about him. But you were always a bit of a tool, Zamfir.”

“ _Shut up_. End this. Or I will do it for you.”

“You could let me continue. It’s a much more convenient alternative, isn’t it?”

Zamfir spat out, “You mean _necromancy_! I am not letting you ruin yourself. Ruin _him_.”

The woman pursed her lips, “ _Furnunculus_.”

Of course the first people he saw would not be muggles at all; no, they had to be insane mudbloods. They were talented - the female mudblood possessing quick reflexes and Zamfir using wordless spells - but it was a simple _stupefy_ that ended the duel. Zamfir flopped onto the ground, like a marionette who had its strings cleanly cut off. The mudblood did not bother to check for a pulse, instead heading towards the entrance.

“A weakness payment! No wonder the tracking spell was off…” Her fingers edged over a splatter of blood, the one he created when _he_ entered the cave. She had to realize what that meant. “Shit!”

She nicked her finger on the rough surface, but it was insufficient to work as a blood payment. Then, she looked inside of a patchwork bag, placing a crystal basin by her side.

The mudblood took out a silver dagger, glistening in the moonlight, and made a vertical cut along her left arm. Oh Merlin, the _parallels_. Blood started to trickle from her skin, collecting in the basin; regardless, she proceeded, drawing runes in an unusual triangular shape. The mudblood was comfortable with the process, evident from the thin, pink scars all over her arms.

But the mudblood started _choking_. The black foam, so reminiscent to the hue of the moonseed poison, that was frothing out was not a sign of a failed dark ritual.

He floated over to the limp body of Zamfir, cautious to remain out of sight, and put his hands on Zamfir’s face, willing to lower his body temperature. After a few terrible moments, Zamfir continued to shake, until finally, he jolted up. He stumbled, but ran over to Henrietta’s convulsing body.

“ _La naiba_ , Etta- Henrietta Wilkerson! We– I– I am going to get you to St Mungo’s.”

The man supported her with an arm across her shoulders, and thankfully, neither of their tremors affected his apparition.

Reveling in his success, he smiled. It became hard to maintain, when a sudden wave of nausea crashed over him, and for the first time since he died, he lost consciousness.

* * *

_Farzaneh Aziz’s Apartment_

_October 31, 1981_

A thud, then, a high-pitched screech: “Aziz, Mina, whatever you call yourself? You up?”

Farzaneh was pragmatic. It was for that reason, her recent mess of a life was somewhat of a surprise. Her boyfriend broke up with her. So did her almost-girlfriend, after that, and well. She thinks you can see where this was going.

“Aziz,” the voice - Turtledove - repeated, “don’t ignore me.”

She wasn’t ignoring anyone. She was taking a _strategic_ break. Farzaneh had spent hours writing the script for the morning program, even when she could have started checking a lead for one of the cases she picked up. A simple marital dispute; she needed to find evidence for grounds for a divorce.

“Aziz-”

“I’m here. You can stop calling out my name now. What’s wrong?”

The face that appeared in the fire went through a variety of emotions. “Great,” her boss stated, in a way that indicated the exact opposite. “I have a job for you.”

Which, _what_? Discovering the truth waited for no wizard, but what type of story would make Farzaneh go out and investigate in the middle of the night?

“Alright… are you going to tell me anything about it?”

“Yes, it’s just,” Turtledove sighed. “An informant said they saw You-Know-Who. A cottage appeared. It’s destroyed, but nobody left the perimeters.”

Her stomach swooped. She wasn’t an Order member - she couldn’t prance up to a Dark Lord, not get killed by them, and then walk away. She was working as a journalist, a writer. So: “I’m not doing that. You couldn’t even pay me to go there.”

“I _do_ pay you, in case you forgot about that. That’s what I hired you for. And don’t say any bullshit about being busy. I know you haven’t gotten that much work through your other job, and this pays more than what your regular ghostwriting gig does.”

Her face became blank. She refused, “I’m not doing it.”

“This is going to be broadcasted during your usual hour. Merlin, please. If this is what I think it is, you’re going to secure a massive bonus. Just take the risk. Please.”

Her temper ceased with the logical request and she hissed, “Fine. _Fine_ \- but you’ll have to reschedule my advertisement to play right after it. No extra fees at all. It’s the only thing I’m asking for.”

Turtledove remained quiet for a few seconds and Farzaneh worried that she had overstepped her boundaries, suggesting a deal that her boss wouldn’t agree to. But her fears put at rest, as Turtledove agreed, “Alright, but only until your father recovers.”

A burst of happiness appeared in her chest, like a bubbling cauldron. “Thank you,” she expressed. “Really, _thank you_. You’re not gonna regret this.”

* * *

_Unknown Location_

_Unknown Date_

After a few moments - because Etta was pretty sure she just saw a freaking _ghost_ \- she found her voice.

“So,” she casually remarked, “I’m actually nineteen. Biologically, I mean.”

The aurors stared blankly at her, as if she just served them those weird American Twinkies with their tea. (She never even bought them, but she can already tell that they probably taste horrible. Don’t get started on the sugar in them. Don’t even.)

Her initial thoughts, that the interrogation was because of an experiment that blew up the girls bathroom (which she _did_ do, but never got to see the results of, unfortunately), were proven wrong. The reality was _way_ worse.

Etta considered herself a lot of things. Being a Novice Necromancer™ was totally not one of them. Her ma was mad at her, which _really_ , wasn’t a bit fair. She didn’t even remember _using_ the blood from people’s pets for blood rituals. Which, apparently, was also only discovered because there were animal corpses in her apartment. When she got over the fact she had her own _apartment_ , she can only think: that’s so freaking gross.

(It was probably a good idea to not mention how she could read the necromantic runes on her arms. That seemed pretty dang incriminating.)

Somehow, because her life is freaking weird, there was still a more pressing issue to start cover. It was really _not_ cool. Completely terrible, even, if she said so herself.

But the wixen didn’t even startle at what Etta said. Like it was normal for people to go through. Which she was pretty sure that it wasn’t, in fact, normal to go through. Unless if she missed some sort of memo that everybody else got.

“Oh, that isn’t entirely unusual these days.”

Ma interrupted, “Did you just say it wasn’t unusual? That there’s _other_ kids who lost entire chunks of their memory?”

The auror with a pixie cut grimaced, “Well, I wouldn’t say it was losing their memory, it’s more of a loss of—”

Their partner, a wixen with bold eyeliner and stud earrings, elbowed them. They coughed, “What Auror Chang meant to say, is that the Ministry understands if there are any… complications with recalling what exactly happened during the war. You only have to fill out some paperwork and, at the most, go to trial. Since you didn’t actually seem to do anything that could be filed under terrorist activities, you’re free to go.”

They leave the room, a few awkward seconds later. Etta was glad about that. The second-hand embarrassment was starting to kill her.

Zamfir, who was her brother’s… partner (???), told her that Frederick died. Her brother was dead.

Ma was holding her hand, but she was floating in space, unable to really process what was going on. Then, in the middle of her existential crisis, as a healer served her breakfast, a broadcast announced that the war was over. That You-Know-Who was _dead_. That a dang _baby_ \- who they christened, the Boy-Who-Lived - defeated him.

Even Zamfir was wide-eyed at that.

Nothing was adding up. On first glance, it didn’t seem too suspicious. But what about her additional knowledge of runes? (How they were ones that she didn’t learn before she lost control of her own body?) And honestly, how likely was it, that a Dark Lord died on the same day the _implied_ imperius she was under ended?

It was definitely no imperius, for sure. But _what_ it was, didn’t matter as much as the fact that it was a targeted attack. And Merlin be damned if she didn’t at least _try_ to figure out who caused it.

* * *

_The Cave_

_Unknown Date_

He came to be, face in the dirt.

If this was the typical result of helping a mudblood, he preferred to not make it a habit. He fainted the first time he did, and he was _incorporeal_.

Nevertheless, his thoughts were still stuck on one seemingly innocent notion: were his ideals completely for naught, when he essentially ignored them for his own convenience? No, he wanted to rationalize, they were not. He had been _branded_ for them- they had to be worth something, anything. Regardless, he did not know what to think of, what he _wanted_ to think about the whole situation.

He curled into himself, feeling the biting cold, which was strange. He should not feel temperature the same way humans – the alive – did. That was, unless…

He rolled his head to the side, his view filled with the gray, slate–like stone that similarly decorated the rest of the cave. It took him several minutes to adjust, strangely unused to the scarce lighting and an unwanted panic piercing his lung.

A trickle of water splashed over his leg, leaving his limbs frigid and shivering. It was not helped by the point of a dagger, pressed against the flesh of his thigh.

This could _not_ be happening.

Merlin, he thought. He was actually _alive_. And… he was not sure if he wanted to be.


	2. think of her mournfully; not of the stains of her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was _alive_. He had actually managed to deviate from his original plan as far as possible. It had all come full circle, honestly.
> 
> But what was he supposed to do? There were no trick cards up his sleeve, leaving no chance to enjoy the delusion of comfort; a sore reminder of all his own failures. He has to remind Sirius to add one to the list, if they could ever decide on a fragile peace between them. If he was even allowed to be around him.
> 
> But, first, he owed a proper goodbye to Kreacher, the lovely, good house elf he did not deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: explicit thoughts of matricide, casual mentions of patricide, gaslighting; implied physical/emotional abuse.

_The Green Dragon_

_November 23, 1981_

Romania was different from Britain.

Not in a bad way. Of course not. Britain was literal hell.

But the cup in his hand told a different story.

There he was, drinking alcohol in a bar that got more business that it should have. Most of the customers were nonhumans. They were looking for a place in society. It was sad. They were never going to find what they were looking for.

Well. He was doing the same thing. He shouldn’t judge.

“Is this seat taken?”

Maximus looked up. Yes, he wanted to snap; it is, but Freddy runs away from smug assholes. Damn. He forgot the word in English. And now, he felt annoyed again.

His mouth dried at the sight of the approaching man.

The curl, the unhealthy skin, and the cheekbones. Features common in pureblood circles. Jesus Christ, the circles that he had sworn _against_ during the war.

And Maximus was noticeable, very much so in England. The only other brown man in the Order was Potter, and–

Everyone knew what happened to Potter.

He didn’t want the same thing to happen to him.

He remained seated on the stool, but flicked his wand so it jabbed the man’s artery, the one on his right arm.

He forgot its name. In Romanian, as well. How unfortunate.

His hand gripped onto the stranger’s, like a shackle, and Maximus could feel his pulse rocketing.

Good. Fear was an acceptable response.

“There’s been quite a misunderstanding here.”

“And you would clear it up?” Maximus hissed.

The man laughed, “To be honest, yes, I would. I don’t fancy myself getting caught up in a duel this late at night, especially when I’m not even a Death Eater. Would you?”

“You think I will believe you?”

“Would you rather believe that a Death Eater spent years visiting a bar of _half-breeds_.” His voice became posh and condescending. Clear mockery. It returned to what it was like before. “All to catch you off guard and attack you, or would you rather that I have a proposition for you? One that would make you decent money.”

He didn’t know how to reply. This wasn’t what he expected. “I am not a rent boy.”

The man’s eyes widened, realizing his mistake. “What? Wait, I didn’t mean– I meant a job offer. Not a proposition for intercourse.”

“A job offer.” The words felt wrong on his tongue, but the man nodded. An attempt to reassure Maximus.

“Exactly.”

“Do you know how that sounds? I do not even know you.”

“I swear to Merlin, I’m not a criminal, I– Look, have you ever seen, or been in Judd’s Junk shop?”

“I am guessing it is not in the area.”

“No, it’s not,” Judd agreed. “It’s in Newham. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. The job’s terrible, but you don’t have anywhere else to go, do you?”

“I am not going to take it.”

“And if I mentioned who the regulars were?”

He tightened his grip. He deflected, “I need the full details. Forgive me for not being gullible.”

“To be honest, I wouldn’t expect anything less from someone of your caliber.”

“What is that, exactly?”

“An Order member.”

 _Oh_.

It wasn’t an insult. Better than if it was cause of… other things. He would’ve cursed Judd for it, bar rules be damned.

“You did your research. But you still did not answer my question.”

Judd sucked in a breath, as if preparing for what he was going to state. He said, “Death Eaters.”

Maximus cocked his head. “You think that would do you good?”

“People like you can’t stop their tendencies for the self sacrificial. My cousin was part of it.”

But Freddy would’ve agreed. He always cared about people. Doing the right thing. And by _God_ , did Maximus miss him. He would’ve made this easier.

“A _cousin_? You just want protection from the law. _Negare plauzibilă_. Ratting out other people. What better way to do that than getting your own… what do you call it? Exterminator?”

“Some battles aren’t worth fighting.”

“If you say so,” Maximus sneered. “We can talk about the details. Just do not expect too much from me.”

Judd smiled. He said nothing. He slipped out of Maximus’s grasp. And the conflict ended, with an odd tension in the air. Like he was tricked.

Maximus breathed out. He continued drinking.

* * *

_WWN Headquarters_

_December 24, 1981_

Like all things, it started with a simple idea; in fact, it started with a joke. She already had her own private investigation company. Becoming a journalist was _funny_. The type of story you mention at an awkward school reunion. But now… Farzaneh has no idea how she even got so involved with the business.

“Does anybody actually have an idea for a segment?” Burke opened his mouth, before Calera added, “One that isn’t about the war or music recommendations.”

One by one, employees shook their head to the witch’s question. Business was slow, more so than usual. The war was over, but they were still trying to grasp onto a sense of normality. It was harder than it should have been. Most of them were still working at home. Enough people had _died_ because of their quiet activism.

“It’s hard to work as a sports reporter if there’s no quidditch to talk about.”

Edgecombe brought up, “You could talk about that sport that they play in America. Quodpot, was it?”

“Oh Merlin,” Burke moaned. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“What’s wrong with quodpot?”

“Quodpot is _so_ strange! There’s no reason to have the damn ball explode—”

She regretted going to this work function, she wanted to say. But that was rude. She didn’t know any of her colleagues besides Calera, and she didn’t even celebrate Christmas, and _ugh_.

Instead, Farzaneh shook her glass of- eggnog? She didn’t know what it was, with fizzing candy canes sticking out of the cup. And she couldn’t eat most of the dishes, because none of it was halal. Farzaneh can’t even bring herself to care, used to people’s casual ignorance.

A person slid by her side, causing her to turn around. Edgecombe, in his quiet charm, had escaped from Burke’s rant.

“Was he as obsessed with quidditch as he is now?”

Farzaneh startled, “Sorry?”

“I mean, was he as fanatical about the sport during Hogwarts?” Edgecombe confessed, “I wasn’t very social during my school years. But Aziz, you were in his house, weren’t you?”

“Oh. He was five years ahead of me, so I never got to know him. But I’d say… yes, he was always that passionate about it. I never understood the appeal myself, but whatever will be, will be.”

A comfortable silence lay between them. It was surprising, how they fell into it, without a question. Then, a question popped into her head, and she was unable to shake it away.

“I never told you I was in Slytherin. I didn’t introduce myself.”

He shrugged. “I have an older brother in your year. He fancied you, if I’m being honest. Thought you were interesting.”

“Oh,” she gave a sidelong glance, “do you agree with him?”

His eyes lingered at her lips. “Your writing is pretty damn good. It’s… compelling. Even before the piece you wrote on the Boy-Who-Lived. I’ve been following it since you started at WWN.”

 _Oh_ , she thought, as her heartbeat quickened. She felt aware of her own sweat, the necklace she wore, and the material of her sweater. Everything, if she was being honest.

Hm. The day wasn’t unfruitful, after all, she thought, as she placed a hand on his arm. Almost great, really.

* * *

_The Cave_

_Unknown Date_

Wide–eyed stupor bled to terror.

He was _alive_. He had actually managed to deviate from his original plan as far as possible. It had all come full circle, honestly.

But what was he supposed to do? There were no trick cards up his sleeve, leaving no chance to enjoy the delusion of comfort; a sore reminder of all his own failures. He has to remind Sirius to add one to the list, if they could ever decide on a fragile peace between them. If he was even allowed to be around him.

But, first, he owed a proper goodbye to Kreacher, the lovely, good house elf he did not deserve. Kreacher, who he last saw when he was _drowning_. Kreacher, who should still be alive, because his mother had many vices, but she was never overtly cruel to a house elf. That was more of Malfoy’s style.

Cataloging his belongings, he determined if any of his items were of any use. The knife was rusted, more likely to bring about an infection than getting out of the cave. Then, the sickle. He did not know what to do with it, nevertheless if it would even serve him any purpose. More likely than not, it would not and only end up pawned to an irrelevant muggle. Unfortunate, but a necessary deed, for he could not stay in the wizarding world, where he must have been considered dead; muggles, as dull as they were, would at least provide a sense of anonymity.

He weaved around pillars of stone, hoping to finally get out. He missed the feeling of breathing, if nothing else. It was a consistent, reassuring noise - that he was there, grounded and real.

Gaining momentum, he finally reached the entrance, unknowingly clutching the sickle a bit tighter. He wanted to go home, he desperately thought; muscles already aching from the strenuous movement.

With a sickening lurch, he was pushed forward, body spasming to the dirty ground and an echoing _pop!_ ringing in his ears. The contents in his stomach, in an act of betrayal, decided to depart from his body at the same exact moment. Emerald green potion - the very thing he forced himself to drink, what _Kreacher_ was forced to drink, all those months ago - crawled up his windpipe, splattering beneath him and leaving a dribble down his mouth.

He opened his eyes, only to see a vibrant patch of grass.

 _Oh_ _Merlin_ , he thought. It was an emergency _portkey_. Which he just happened to have in his pocket, when he most needed it. He assumed he had stopped using them, long ago, when he finally was able to apparate, but, from that, it was obvious where he was portkeyed to: his _home_ , 12 Grimmauld Place.

The colors soon became too much for him. Too strong, too psychedelic, too… luminous. He closed his eyes, once more, breath becoming embarrassingly shallow. No, he could do this, he just needed more-

He heard a metallic click.

A woman’s voice neared him, but it was too practiced to be genuine, full of sickeningly measured kindness. He shivered, it reminded him of himself.

“Hey, are you alright there? You look a bit… pale.”

He made sure to look at the woman - her headscarf matching the humid weather with a tender, pale jade- and stiffly got up, with as much decorum he could muster. He pretended to trip up on the pavement, once, and was grateful to note that the woman had walked away. Finally, he observed the townhouse, strangely flickering into his sight, and then abruptly disappearing, like a dying candle.

He shrugged it off; it might have been a side effect of… what happened to him. To know for sure, he would have to look at one of the grimoires, wherever they were. He had a strange feeling they were pawned off during his great-grandfather’s time, like so many of their other belongings.

He shivered; his great-grandfather’s horrendous finances were the least of his worries, for now.

Slowly climbing up the steps, he approached the door of the house, awaiting for some disastrous event to befall him. But, even when he grasped onto the doorknob, nothing happened. It felt too good to be true, like it was a premonition of what was to become.

The door swung open. There was nobody there to welcome him.

He let out a deep sigh and managed three steps before collapsing onto the floor, like he had done moments before. A familiar snap of apparition rang against the room, and he heard a subsequent and familiar, croaking voice.

“Who is daring to disrupt Kreacher’s Mistress’s rest? Poor Mistress Walburga, sick with grief…”

“Kreacher?”

A stony silence laid heavy, before he lifted his head, his eyes meeting his friend’s.

“Master… Regulus?”

But the house elf’s exuberance disappeared quickly, turning into some form of righteous anger, looking strange on his face. “How dare someone impersonate my late Master?”

“I am not impersonating anyone!” he exclaimed, with more spirit than he felt. “I _am_ him. I just- I died, but I came back and I know this sounds ridiculous. I am trying to get used to the idea myself, so is there something, anything that will get you to believe in me?” He paused. “What if I told you my last command?”

Kreacher looked at him, skeptically. “You could be using legilimency and reading Kreacher’s thoughts.”

He cringed at the obvious logical fallacy, as it should have been something he was aware of, before someone else pointed it out.

“Fine- I- What if I-” His mind practically stopped and restarted within a few seconds, and the answer hit him harder than a ferocious bludger. He quickly rolled his left sleeve up, thoughtlessly shoving it in front of Kreacher’s face. “Does this prove anything?”

His friend took his arm, inspecting the dark mark and, more importantly, the cut he made. Polyjuice was ultimately a shallow impersonation. It would not have caused the user to maintain wounds, not when said wounds were merely superficial.

“It is you. It is Master Regulus!”

He choked and could not manage to say anything.

They were a mess of blubbering tears and shaky hands; nothing less of what he expected in a reunion with his closest friend. But the small commiseration for his pains, for his subtle realizations since awaking, once more, were null and void. How could he have missed the sound of a woman descending a staircase? He should have known better.

“Reggie?”

And suddenly, everything turned cold, as if he just dipped his fingertips in rippling waves that were always present in the cave. Like he was back, in his previous form - incorporeal and unhuman.

“You came back.”

Her voice was unfeeling. It was always the worst part of having to face her, after he made a mistake and just wanted to hide away. She did not even do anything and that… that made it worse. It was the wait before the punishment, the scolding, the fury. His father might have played little part in his life, but at least he was predictable. His mother was like a snitch, too much personality to remain consistent.

Kreacher stopped fussing over him, choosing to instead face his mistress. He felt caught in a crime, even when he _knew_ he did nothing wrong.

“Of course,” he replied, as if it was ever in question. He always did. “You should be in bed.”

It was not even evasion. His mother looked terribly gaunt; haggard and overcome with the events of her life.

Her voice started off as soft, but gradually rose in volume. “ _I_ should be in bed? You were the one who disappeared, taking the hopes of this _damn_ decaying house with you. Reggie, you were supposed to be the heir, and you went away, because _you_ were too much of a-”

His mother’s tirade was interrupted by a fit of coughs, and his own hands became unsteady and shaking. He did not know where to put them, not when his mother seemed fragile enough that she would fall apart by a single touch.

He was already exhausted of energy, all of his muscles complaining against the abuse, but he mustered the last dregs of his power to support his mother up the stairs, and back to her bedroom. Throughout all of it, he was able to witness his mother muttering profanities under her breath.

As he tucked his mother into her bed, feeling disturbingly domestic for a person who would have scoffed at their current interactions, his throat became hoarse.

He was bitter, not truly able to think of himself as a Reggie or a Regulus or a Reg - he felt like a No-One. His thoughts became darker and darker, and he wondered why he even stayed as long as he had. It would have been so simple, so easy, if he instructed Kreacher to poison his mother, like his grandfather had done to _his_ own father. At least she would be gone.

But he could not, he would not.

He did not understand the entitlement his mother held over his emotions, even when their association had become more and clipped as the years past. He was dead, and she was in control of his life. He came back, and the same was still true. It was not fair.

He took in a deep breath. “Kreacher,” he called and the house elf arrived, in the room, “if Mother asks you about me, I was never here. She was running a fever and was dreaming all of it. Of me.”

Kreacher wrinkled his brow, “Why is Master acting so-”

“Please, lie to her for me.”

His friend, knowing to not press on the issue, quieted and gave a small nod of assent. Everything was _not_ peaceful, but it was fine; that would have to be suffice.

* * *

_WNN Headquarters_

_August 7, 1982_

It was not until noon, of the very same day, for the woman to have realized who she had encountered. She paused the dictaquill she was using, eyes not leaving the documents she was looking at.

She blinked several times. Farzaneh whispered, “I… talked to Regulus Black.”

He was a _dead_ man. Though, a dead man who had all the qualities Wilkerson described in her original statement, when they were setting up the contract for the case.

And if 12 Grimmauld Place - which prompted her interest in the area in the first place - was his _actual_ home…

Well then. She had a purchase agreement to sign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well it's been 3-ish months since the last chapter. oops :) _however_ , i did make this a series, where this story is part 2. i uploaded part 1 a few days ago, and it can serve as a companion fic, as it references several things that regulus also talks about in this fic. you can think of it as an AU of an AU, where reg never becomes a ghost. but you don't have to. it's ur choice, rly ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> well, a lot happened in this chapter tho, and now we're about 20% done with the first arc. i'll try updating again within the next month... anyways, as always, kudos/comments/etc give me energy to write faster, but don't feel pressured to do anything <3
> 
> and oc, this chapter's fic rec: [Things that glide in the night!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21718870) i would reccomend it if you're interested in regulus/remus (as a romantic pairing!), an unique perspective on The Prank, and beautiful, yet tragic, endings.

**Author's Note:**

> if u think i should've added a trigger warning/content warning, pls don't think twice abt telling me abt it! this should b a place where u can put ur happiness & safety before anything else !!
> 
> if u wanna ever talk hmu thru: [ig!](https://www.instagram.com/lovely.raaya/), [twt!](https://twitter.com/raayachez), [tumblr!](https://rchez.tumblr.com/)


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